None of my business how good or not any particular artist is. For me it’s rather simple – pick the ones that really resonate with you, then prepare to let yourself become a silent fan. Two types of fans in my mind – those who adore and champion an artist’s obvious talents from afar. Then those who become single-handedly over-obsessive and in a manner that could maybe even ruin said artist’s career. The latter of these two is quite over-imaginative, to be perfectly fair. However, I’d much prefer to fall way farther inside of the previous category of people, of course I would. For me, certain art is to do with an idea as to what it is exactly that an artist might have had to go through so as to eventually create what it is they might finally find to be looking back at them square in the face. A blank canvas, to something as pretty and pristine as this particular piece by artist Denis Sarazhin, for example, tells me just how naturally talented he must surely have to have been in the beginning. But then, I could be, or rather I probably am in fact, entirely wrong, but that right there is where my literary rhythmic association with the process of any artist starts to play ball. Trying to create the seen to be uncreatable.